"Those insults were not premeditated, at least," he retorted. "Have you
not got accustomed yet to men's losing their heads in your presence, and
then talking as the spirit moved them? And you think I am amusing myself
now. _Merci!_ there runs something in my veins warmer than ice-water."
His accent was abrupt, even to rudeness, yet Cecil felt a thrill of
guilty triumph as she heard it, and marked the shiver of passion that
shot through the colossal frame from brow to heel. A more perfect
specimen of immaculate womanhood might not have been insensible to that
acknowledgment of her power. But she shook her head in sorrowful
incredulity.
"You do less than justice to your self-control. But it is too late for
reproaches. I forgive you for any wrong that you may have done me, even
in thought or intention. I wish the past could be buried. For the
future, I can say only this--we must part, and that instantly; it is
more than time."
Keene had expected some such answer, and it did not greatly disconcert
him. After pausing a second or two he said,
"I did not ask you for your decision without meaning to abide by it.
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